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The Price We Pay

Chapter 2

Hardison trailed behind Eliot just a few steps as they entered the hitter's apartment. He could tell Eliot wanted some space. The man had growled when Hardison had told him he'd at least see him inside. When Eliot had paused to rub at a spot on his left leg on the stairs, he'd thrown a sideways glance at Hardison, as if to gauge his reaction. Hardison had kept his face purposefully neutral despite the fact that he was boiling over inside as he began to understand the depth to which Eliot had been injured without raising so much as a word about it to the rest of them.

Eliot turned to face him once he'd shut his door. "Well? I made it in alive. No one jumped me on the way in or anything. So I suppose you can go home."

Hardison didn't shrink back from the hitter's irritated barb. "Where are you hurt?"

"It's nothing you need to be worried about. Hell, half the time it's me patching you and the rest of the team up. Trained in advanced first aid, remember?" he said, pointing to himself.

Hardison crossed his arms. "Right. And the first rule of medical care is what, keep an injury to yourself? Or, wait, was it inform someone else so they know that something's up?"

Eliot didn't really have a response to that. In truth, there wasn't a rational defense he could muster against plain logic. So he steered the conversation in another direction instead. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, one that had escaped his disheveled ponytail, and spoke. "If you want to play badger the injured party, fine. I'm going to take a shower before we go another bout. I'm tired and I'm dirty."

Hardison nodded. Eliot returned the gesture with a lazy dip of his own chin and retreated to his bedroom.

Hardison took his sudden solitude as a chance to inspect the apartment and see if he could get a better feel for what was happening here. Something was off. His most pressing concern was whether he could chalk Eliot's condition and irregular behavior up to the latest mission or maybe something more was going on than met the eye.

Hardison was used to seeing military precision when he walked into Eliot's domain. The books always stood at ninety degree angles to their shelves between two tightly pressed book ends. They would be arranged in alphabetical order too. Eliot's obsession with order knew no bounds when left unchecked.

At the current moment Eliot's apartment wasn't messy by any means, but it wasn't up to its normally clinical neatness either. One of Eliot's leather jackets was tossed over the back of the couch and there were a few martial arts DVD's strewn across the coffee table.

He took all this in as he made his circuit through the place. He paused as his wanderings led him into the kitchen. There was an open medical case on the kitchen table. This wasn't the small kit you'd buy at Wal-Mart. No, it looked identical to the ones that Eliot had stashed under the bar and in the back of whatever car they happen to commandeer for a con in case things went south and it was needed. It was the kind of kit that would look more at home in the back of an ambulance than in an apartment for home use. Some of the case's contents were scattered across the table: a few gauze squares, a tube of antibiotic ointment with the cap screwed on at an odd angle, and a pair of ace wraps were among the items spread out at random. He picked up a bottle of pills. Rattling it found it to be half empty. Hardison took a moment to read the label. He frowned at that. Vicodin. But one more item made his muscles tense. There was a needle tinted red with dried blood and a spool of that dissolving thread that you'd use for stitches.

All of this, put together, suggested that Eliot had taken on more abuse in the last few missions than he'd led on. No, Eliot had acted the part perfectly; putting them off the scent with his standard caustic comments. He'd make a snappy remark and withdraw as soon as he could manage to pry himself loose of their company. Hardison had written off as Eliot wanting some time alone. To rest, maybe, or to mediate or do whatever it was that he preferred when the team dissolved to their respective homes for a time after a con. But he'd never thought that Eliot needed the time to stitch himself back together, dull the pain, and get ready to do it all again.

He set the pills back on the table, careful to put them in the same spot he'd picked them up from, before moving over to survey the trashcan. It was about halfway full, another indication that something was off. Eliot took the trash out all the time at Nate's place, even. And here was his own filled with discarded bandages and take-out food containers. Had they really been working that much? Had Eliot really been that preoccupied with their cons that he had to set aside his love of cooking and settle for fast food?

Hardison bit his lip, slowly shaking his head. He retraced his steps back to the bedroom, pausing to knock on the partially-opened door. "Eliot? You in there, man? I'm gonna take out your trash. Where's your dumpster?"

The soft noise of water running in the background suggested that Eliot was still in the shower. Part of Hardison's mind willed him to press his fingertips lightly against the door, swinging it open just a few more inches would leave a gap large enough to let him slip into the room unnoticed for a quick look around. The bedroom was the one part of Eliot's quarters that he'd never seen. The man had always made it a point to keep the door shut.

But ultimately, Hardison shook his head, rejecting the notion. He wouldn't invade the last vestige of his friend's privacy. All he could make out through the gap was a blank white wall and a closed closet door. The dresser right next to the door had an alarm clock on it, though. He observed that the clock was set for an alarm to ring. He reached a hand inside the door just enough to swipe the clock off the dresser top without disrupting the door's partially-open position. Damn. The clock was set to wake Eliot up at 5AM. He respected the man's iron-clad discipline, but sometimes the body needed rest. And having seen the condition Eliot was in already, three hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it. He switched the alarm off, replaced the clock on its perch, and withdrew from his spot outside Eliot's room before his curiosity got the better of him and forced him to take the two steps forward into Eliot's private quarters, something he knew he'd regret.

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